News correspondent love and Politico is candy-ass

Politico's front page was so right-leaning and obnoxious this morning, it turned my stomach. The lead headline was Why Reporters are Down on Obama.

"President Obama and the media have a surprisingly hostile relationship," the photo caption said.

A long and stunningly self-referential article followed (it's seven pages long, with no less than six links to other Political stories on page one).

Jake Tapper is ABC's White House correspondent and one of my favorite favorite favorite people to follow on twitter. So I tweeted that I'd love to hear Tapper's response to the Politico piece.

Oh joyous day of days, Tapper tweeted me back!

"i'm not part of any of that," Tapper said, "if i have issues with Gibbs, i talk to Gibbs about it myself."

So there you have it. Politco sucks. Jack Tapper rules. And I've got a new sugarpop to add to the short list.

* * *

Guilty Pleasures, vol. one: Mark Dacascos

No, I did not watch him on Dancing with the Stars, nor am I familiar with any of his martial arts films. All I know of Mark Dacascos is that he's that hot Asian American "Chairman" guy on Iron Chef America, and every time he takes an orgiastic bite out of a ripe bell pepper, I swoon.

Look at that hair on his chest (!). Plus, he's straight, and he's one year older than me. I need a powder.

Mr. Dacascos, welcome to the short list.

I never tire of the secret ingredient announcement: tofu, honey, buffalo, coconut ... I want it all. Although I have to admit that "beer" was not his best moment.



Wouldn't it be great if one day Dacascos did as he always does and eyes the waiting chefs for a pregnant beat or two, ratcheting up the anticipation for that secret ingredient announcement, then triumphantly unveiled a massive bin of phalli while bellowing "Dildo!" as a prank of sorts.

Imagine the stunned look on Bobby Flay's face or Cat Cora's eyes flattening into slits as her tongue instinctively curls around the corner of her upper lip, visions of impromptu "recipes" filling her naughty mind.

That's how things would roll if I were in charge, people. I am so underutilized.

Bonus mandatory admission: I want to rub Mario Batali's belly: rub rub rub rub rub.

* * *

On the hirsute virtues of Geraldo Rivera

Yesterday, this post from my favorite fool inspired me to look up the following entry that ran, ironically, exactly three years ago today. I liked the post so much, I decided to put it up again for my newer readers' perusal.
* * *
His fans claim he is a world-renowned journalist. He was surely once a daytime television talk show host that was some unholy combination of Phil Donahue and Jerry Springer. That gig earned him a live-on-the-air broken nose, as well as shows with titles such as "Men in Lace Panties and the Women Who Love Them." He hosted a prime time special that featured the opening of Al Capone's vault, which, after two hours, revealed not hordes of jewels and mysterious piles of human bones, but instead only a beer bottle and a pile of dirt. While on assignment in Iraq, he drew a map in the sand that disclosed sensitive location information to anyone with a television and, according to some reports was subsequently barred from imbedded reporting by the Pentagon. He's been called a sensationalistic hack and a monger of trash t.v.

I don't care about any of that.

Because no matter how many "Drag Queens on Parade" he shovels onto the small screen, or freindly fire locations he bungles, or how much fat he has extracted from his buttocks for injection into his face during his telecast, the only things I can think of whenever I see Geraldo Rivera are two little words.

1. mustache.

2. ride.

This does not give Rivera a direct get-out-of-jail-free trip to the short list. It does not necessarily mean that I am amenable to said mustache ride. I simply pose this: Is there any woman out there who can take one look at Rivera and not think, tickletickletickle?

Two other notables:

-Can you identify the likely suspect in in this photo?

-And although he's not well known, surely facial hair like that found on this urban myth buster cannot go without mention.

In the end, gentlemen, all I can offer is a low raspy purrrrrrrrrrrr and the assertion, viva la facial hair.

The big reveal

My darling short-lister, ladies and gentlemen, is Rally Caparas! Here is a montage of Rally-in-action:



I love that YouTube.

We get Wolf, Robin and best of all--tons of Rally. Is it any wonder that he was the first entry on the short list? I think not!

Now, I don't know what to say about those Patriots. When you're a life-long Clevelander, you have certain obligations (don't ask--it's complicated). I can only hope Rally doesn't hold it against me.

Rally, you are a gem. You are everything a short-lister should be: down-to-earth and full of humor and intelligence. (Plus, what's not to love about that pony tail?)

Thanks for everything.

luvluv,

Erin

A short lister chimes in **UPDATED**

It finally happened.

Over two years ago, I posted the short list (the Goat, incidentally, originally came up with that name). Since then, I have made some additions to the list.

One of the individuals assigned to my list has contacted me:

I was told about your reference to me on many occasions over the last few years. I decided to finally check it out as a result of my college age daughter's prodding me to do so. I am very flattered to have been mentioned by you in this way! You are an incredibly entertaining, real person. I enjoy watching, reading, etc. your commentaries. And again, I am truly flattered.

XOXOXO

I shall leave his/her identity a secret. But believe me he/she is a TOTAL HOTTIE.

You might wonder if this development has rattled the Goat's complacency. You be the judge:

"So one of the short listers chimed in, huh?" he said, sipping at his coffee.

"That's right," I said with no small amount of challenge in my voice. "After that email, they'll probably be showing up with a bottle of SuperLube ANY MINUTE."

"Uh-huh," he said, turning the page of the newspaper with maddening indifference.

"You Goat!"


* * * UPDATE * * *

After additional email communication with the above outlined short-list mystery identity, I now have permission to share said identity to all of you. But I cannot help myself. I will not unmask the Big Reveal until one of you lovelies correctly guesses who he/she is.

Here is my original email correspondence:

Dear Mystery Identity,

Since I am an terrible she-devil, I posted an entry regarding your email, but I left your identity anonymous. My readers, perhaps predictably, are smoldering with curiosity over your identity.

So then, it seems you have all the power. To step into the light or remain in the shadows? Both options have their advantages. On one hand, my readers are impressed that a short-lister would contact me and you are surely entitled to receive their compliments. On the other hand, there is something delicious in mystery.

I will steadfastly honor your decision. If you opt to own-up, no worries, I will share your name only. Your email addy is safe with me.

Yours in letters and dubious Internet activity,

Erin O'Brien

And Mystery Identity's response:

Why Hello Erin,

Please, you make the call. After all, it is your blog. I do give you full permission to expose me should you choose to do so in your blog, and again, I AM FLATTERED! ; )

So there's the evidence, bloggers. Thus far, Carville and Rowe have been put forth. Mystery Identity is neither of these.

Good luck and good guessing!

One. Two. Three.

1. David Muir is the newest addition to the short list. (Don't even get me started on George Bush the antichrist and his filthy little war and what it's done to (*sigh*) darling-of-my-heart Bob Woodruff.)

2. An Erin O'Brien classic.

3. And something I will undoubtedly regret admitting: I love the Price is Right, although it's never been the same since Janice Pennington left.

Lather, rinse, repeat

Just stay with me on this.

One of the less fortunate permutations of blogs and the Internet in general is the insufferable lists. "100 Things About Me," or "21 Things I Want To Accomplish Before I Turn 21" (I had done one thing 21 times by the time I reached my 21st birthday) or "25 Reasons I'd Marry Her All Over Again" (Not only is that guy lying before he finished typing number 1, he'd be telling the true story if he titled the list, "25 Excuses I've Told My Wife When I Was Doing the 25 Year Old.")

Who could stand it?

I thought, okay, the list is a bad idea. A tired writing prompt that bored graduate students have been offering to their overeager freshman creative writing students for too long. Could I turn it on it's ear and project it through the Erin lens?

Things started out promisingly enough. "Thirteen things I want to do in my car," would be my title. And so it began:

1. Have sex with Bob Woodruff*

2. Listen to Vincent D'Onofrio* tell me that I have élan and verve and éclat as he looks at me with rapt fascination.

3. Listen to ANYBODY** tell me I have élan and verve and éclat, rapt fascination notwithstanding.

*Woodruff and Donofrio are both short listed.
**Photo compliments of Born to Flock.

Then it occurred to me that the three items would be attractive to me no matter where they occurred and, admittedly, my chances with Bob Woodruff might be zero, but they are a slightly better if we were someplace that features alcohol, flattering light, privacy, vast comfortable spots that accommodate two prone bodies and more alcohol. The reader will note that none of these features are available within the enclaves of a Mini Cooper.

So then, what do I really love to do in the Mini? The predictable vapid answers follow. Drive along snaking roads. Listen to Richard Thompson. Talk to my kid.

What's that I hear? The sound of my readers jumping from bridges? I don't blame you.

So what about the "100 Things About Me" idea?

They would have to be 100 really good things, nothing predictable or mundane. Then my face blooms with illumination and I type:

1. I have never slept with a woman.

I am so pleased with myself over this, I sit up straight and grin from ear to ear. Now that I think, is something to tell about yourself. That reveals something. That is interesting. That is a substantial statement. Get 100 babies that good and they'll be swooning in the aisles.

Unfortunately, as is so often the case, my self-satisfaction is short lived.

What exactly does that statement say about me? There is nothing remarkable about it. I am 40 years old and have been married for 13 of those years. Before that, I happily dated men. My heterosexual history is nothing if not vanilla (well, okay, a lot of vanilla).

I deflate, looking at my sad little number one thing about me. Who cares?

I do.

Therein lies the intrigue. Simply making such an assertion not-so-indirectly implies that the otherwise innocuous word "curious" might justifiably be used in certain descriptions of me.

So what of it? I'm mature. I have confidence in myself. And I have always believed all of us fall somewhere in between 100 percent homosexual and 100 percent heterosexual. There is nothing to be ashamed of. It's not as though I'm different from countless other women who have, wondered.

But still, this is scary territory for me. I have to buffer this realization somehow. Preprocess it.

"Honey," I say. "I have something to tell you."

My darling other half peers at me for a moment over the paper before resubmerging. "Yes?"

"It's sort of an addition to the short list," I say.

"Tell me it's not Gene Shalit," he says.

"It's not Gene Shalit," I say. "It's Ann Curry.

He folds the paper down and peers over at me. "The Today show Ann Curry?"

"The Today show Ann Curry," I say. "I thought about Robin Meade, but I'd be afraid of messing up her make up. Some chicks are very funny about their make up. And believe me, she's one of them. Plus she's too damn perky."

My spouse peers at me silently.

"You get a girl like Curry," I say, "and now you're talking. First off, she's a newscaster. She's intelligent. And, of course, she's network."

"So, what you're telling me is that you want to have sex with Ann Curry."

"No, not exactly."

"This is going to be good," he says.

"I just want to wash her hair."

My dearly beloved clears his throat, calmly folds the paper and sets it on the couch. "You want to wash Ann Curry's hair," he says.

"Right."

"But you complain about washing your own hair," he says.

"My hair is different from Ann Curry's hair."

"And why is that?" he asks.

"For starters," I say, "it's not on my head."

To this, he nods. "And where will this blessed event occur? In a bathtub or shower?"

"That question exposes any number of variables," I say. "At first blush, I want to say shower, but if she's much taller than my willowy five feet, my arms might get tired.

"Furthermore," I say. implication of the short list is that my prospective conquest comes here and wants to have sex. Which is sort of troubling, because there ain't no bathroom on these premises suitable for the washing of Ann Curry's hair.

"However," I continue, "given the choice of a shower in my bathtub or one in your shower stall, the space confinement of the shower stall is certainly interesting."

We fall silent for a handful of beats.

"I've been very tolerant of the short list," he says.

"True."

"And far be it from me to edit the list," he says. "But the addition of a woman is quite a bit of a stretch, even though we're only at the hair washing stage. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Er, yes."

"Hence," he says, "I am ready to accept Ann Curry on the short list provided you wash her hair in the bathtub shower."

"Why?" I ask.

"Back to your space confinement issue," he says. "Because if you're going to wash Ann Curry's hair, I am going to apply the hot oil treatment. And although my shower stall might snugly accommodate you and Ann, there would be no room for me."

I consider this for a moment. "Fair enough," I say, nodding.

Both satisfied, my husband picks the paper back up and I reach for the remote.

If I ever get to number two on the "100 Things About Me" list, dear readers, I'll let you know.

Update, update, update.

1. The couch is gone. So are the leaves.

2. Here is a smattering of the things people have been searching for via Google and Yahoo and MSN that eventually brought them here (I have left the associated capitalizations intact):

-Eliminate Forever Premature Ejaculation

-necrophiliacs

-marie callander boxed desserts

-Scientifically Guaranteed Male Multiple Orgasms and Ultimate Sex

-MOM & DAD SCREWING

-tony dicosimo

I hereby solicit commentary from the respective search authors:

-Did you embark on your search in hopes of arriving at The Erin O'Brien Owner's Manual for Human Beings? What was the impetus of said search? Didst thou fully expect the natural path of MOM & DAD SCREWING to logically leadeth thou to these hallowed pages? Whyeth?

-If not, werest thou nonetheless duly satisfied when these pages were delivered unto thou?

-Any details, including those about how this site aided in the elimination of premature ejaculation or the investigation of frozen desserts are welcome.

-Or, more economically, "What the hell gives, tony?"

3. Although the "Customer's who viewed this book also viewed" list has mysteriously disappeared from my novel's Amazon page, before it did, I noted these two additions:

"The Dead of Winter: How Battlefield Investigators, WWII Veterans, and Forensic Scientists Solved the Mystery of the Bulge's Lost Soldiers," by Bill Warnock

"Autobiography of a Fat Bride: True Tales of a Pretend Adulthood," by Laurie Notaro

My Amazon sales rank is too dismal to actually type.

4. Many of my associates are concerned over the health of my marriage due to the publication of the short list. I deeply appreciate the vote of confidence. However, as surprising as it may sound and despite my open invitation to the likes of Bob Woodruff, James Carville and Jim Cantore, the population of our conjugal bed remains at two (me and my husband).

Regarding the numerous questions I've had over my husband's reaction to the list, my insufferable lust and propensity for sin were known to him when we exchanged wedding vows thirteen years ago. There is little left that shocks him.

To those who were curious about whether or not my husband has a short list, he did threaten me once. "You know Erin," he said, "I might have a little ol' short list of my own," to which I reacted by falling on the ground laughing.

To the gentleman who opined that the short list is not all that short: This humble author doth have faith in numbers.

The short list

"If Rally Caparas comes here and wants to have sex, it's pretty much a done deal," I say to the television, from whence the Weather Channel is broadcasting the Travel Update.

"Ol' Rally made it to the short list, did he?" says my husband from behind the newspaper. "What if there's a logistical miscalculation and he comes here when I'm home?"

"You can go for a nice walk," I say.

"Mmm-hm." He yawns, folds up the Metro section and picks up the business section.

Obviously, my husband is not intimidated by the short list, a term he coined that represents my list of fantasy men. I don't know why he is so unconcerned. No collection of Brad Pitts and Ben Afflecks will you find here. No, no. This group is populated by illustrious sexpots such as meteorologists and local mechanics and, admittedly, a few token movie/tv/rock stars.

Here is the complete short list as of November 2005 in no particular order:

1. Rally Caparas

2. Bob Woodruff

3. James Carville

4. The Guy Who Works at Midas Muffler

5. That One Stilt Performer Guy from the Parade Last Summer

6. Jim Cantore

7. Anthony Kiedis

8. Vincent D'Onofrio

9. George Clooney

10. Antonio Banderas

And then there is (purrrrrrrr) these two guys:

11. The Dirty Jobs guy and

12. The Scrubs guy.

I am not delusional. I realize that my chances with The Guy Who Works at Midas Muffler (whose embroidered name patch said "Vince") and That One Stilt Performer Guy from the Parade Last Summer may not be all that good, but they are infinitely better than my chances with, say, Antonio Banderas or George Clooney. And am I wrong to believe that setting your sites on a travel forecaster glitters with some vague hope of possibility?

So, Rally baby, if you've got your ears on, drop me an email.